Scanner Darkly
by HaiJu
Summary: As the thick iron door shut with a clang, Ford and Trace made the zipping motion and tossed away the key. Whatever these guys wanted, they weren't going to get it. No matter what. A story for the missing Dipper clones. Pre-NWHS. Cover art by BeccaDePrisco!
1. Ulfi gl tl

Quick preface, since this is slightly AU: This story is based loosely off a friend's dream about the clones that went missing in Double Dipper. This version of the clones are a bit more durable than in canon; water is actually _painful_ and dissolves them by degrees instead of going all at once. Be warned, **the T rating is for violence** and it'll earn it. Pre-NWHS.

* * *

 **Scanner Darkly**

* * *

The two boys made unlikely prisoners. Disheveled, skinny twelve year olds with thin, underdeveloped arms and legs, faces still soft and round with childish chub. They wore an assortment of dirty summer clothing—Trace in a t-shirt with a pine tree on it, Ford in long sleeves, both in cargo shorts, both with tousled brown hair, worry on identical faces. They could've been twins.

They were taken to a cement block of a room and pushed roughly into two metal folding chairs. The men in suits who had brought them grabbed their arms and pulled them back, cuffing them in place. Ford's shirt had a rip in it. Trace had lost a shoe; icy chill from the damp cement floor crept up through his sock and made him shiver.

There was a card table in front of them, with two chairs opposite. A bare bulb swung overhead, illuminating the tiny cell with its four moisture-streaked cinder block walls. Trace caught a glimpse of ominous metal rings embedded in the back wall at chest height.

The two boys looked at each other, shivering. Each knew what the other was thinking. This looked like the setup of one of those old war movies. _We're gonna get interrogated._

As the men in suits marched out and shut the thick iron door with a clang, Ford and Trace made the zipping motion and tossed away the key. Whatever these guys wanted, they weren't going to get it.

They put their hands flat on the table and waited. No one came. Fluorescents flickered sickly yellow-green. Water trickled down one wall. The ventilation system rumbled in the distance, a constant note of bass against the grating silence.

"Stay strong," Trace murmured out of the side of his mouth. "They're messing with us." Ford nodded.

When the door finally swung open both of them started. They sat up ramrod straight in their seats, ready for the hard-eyed secret agent who would surely come in and try to threaten answers out of them. Someone else entirely stepped through the door.

She was gorgeous. That was the first thing that really sank into She had the kind of brilliant gold hair that could only come out of a bottle, coiled in a sleek bun at the nape of her long, shapely neck. Thin, delicately pink lips curved into an inviting smile. Trace's brain. The bare concrete room paled to an even bleaker grey in comparison to her. Her eyes were honey brown and framed by dark, long lashes. And her, uh, her curves, were… they were…

 _Mesmerizing_ flickered into his mind. Like a cobra, sinuous and soft, and that white lab coat wasn't nearly as good at disguising them as you might think, tailored expertly at the waist and shoulders. A low-cut tank top and some silky thin substance that might generously be called pants completed the look.

The woman rested the pointed tips of her manicured hands on the rusted table and smiled at them. Her honey eyes sharpened into something glittery and dangerous. "You boys have quite a secret. How about sharing it, hmmm?"

They looked at each other and gulped.

Then she leaned back in her seat and clapped her hands. "Oh, but where are my manners! How are these things done now? Could I offer you boys a cup of coffee? A glass of water?" Trace saw Ford flinch out of the corner of his eye. His eyes narrowed; these people knew about the ink. What was she playing at?

The lady didn't seem to notice his look, smile still curved into glossy pink perfection. She waved her long fingers at the man by the door. "A pitcher and two glasses, please, darling."

"We're good," Ford said. He was nervous, but he did a good job of keeping it out of his voice. "We won't be here long, anyway."

She chuckled. "Aren't you a confident one? I like that." The door shut behind the guard; she made no move to call him back. Instead she pushed back her chair with a scrape of metal on concrete and crossed those long, silky black legs. "I'll be honest boys, how long you stay is entirely up to you. Be upfront with me, and back you go to Gravity Falls, no harm done."

Trace licked his lips, which felt dry already. "Otherwise?"

The woman tilted her head and tapped her chin, looking thoughtful. Then she shrugged. "Oh, I have time to kill."

The guard returned with a plastic pitcher of water and two tin cups, arranged incongruously on a decorative silver plate. The woman jumped up and whisked it out of his hands, twirling and depositing it in the middle of the table with such flourish that the water sloshed over the edge of the pitcher and splashed toward the boys.

They both leaned back in their seats. Liquid dripped from the edge of the table in little splatters. The boys winced.

"Oh, look at that mess," the lady said, hand fluttering up to her chest. The teasing smile on her lips didn't match the dismay in her voice. "How clumsy of me."

Trace and Ford exchanged wide-eyed glances. "We don't have anything to say to you," Ford said, going for brave.

"Nothing?" She leaned forward, her shirt dipping to expose curving white breasts.

Trace raised his chin. He ignored the rivulet of spilled water that crawled toward his feet. "Nothing."

The woman sighed and straightened, pushing the chair in with an ear-splitting screech. "Well, that _is_ too bad." She slinked around the table, running her hand through the spilled water, and rubbed her fingers together. "For you, anyway." Leaning forward, she ran a finger down Trace's cheek.

It burned. Tears sprang to his eyes. Trace blinked rapidly and bit the inside of his cheek; he _wasn't_ going to cry. Her face looked even more beautiful up close. She stared at him, eyes wide, smooth pink lips parted slightly, a light flush in her pale cheeks. The look… hungered. It made him shudder.

"Leave him alone!" Ford snapped.

"Oh, I will," she crooned, almost a whisper. The look dissolved into a coy smile; she stood up. "I'll let you think this through. Mull over your options. Make a plan. You like that sort of thing." The woman walked back over to the table and picked up a glass of water; she took a long, luxurious sip. "Toodles."

The door slammed shut behind her. Trace sat still, shivering in pain, and looked at his brother.

"What are we going to do?" Ford asked.

"Stay strong," he said, but he slumped in his chair as he stared at the water. "We don't give them anything."

"We're family?"

"Yeah."

The lights clicked off, leaving them in the dark, with nothing but a steady drip-drip-drip of water off the table to keep them company. Dipper would've figured this out somehow. Or Mabel would've rescued him, or Grunkle Stan, or Wendy. Nobody would come looking for them. Not ever. Neither of them said it. They weren't even supposed to _be_ in the first place. But they were.

Trace heard Ford's handcuffs rattle and him shuffling on his chair. Scooting himself closer, he strained until the metal cut into his wrists, but there was no way for their hands to meet. Instead, he reached out with his leg and bumped it against Ford's. Their skin touching made a tiny spot of warmth in the cold, damp darkness.

They said it softly, together. "Family."

* * *

" _So I guess we've decided," he said one night at the campfire in the cave. They had run out of BABBA tapes and discovered that marshmallows tasted like paper pulp, no matter how good they smelled._

 _Four looked up from tracing a decoder into the dirt. "I guess so, bro."_

 _The multi-bear had gone off to do whatever multi-bears do during the night, leaving them alone together. The fire was a little dangerous considering they couldn't put it out with water, but it felt nice. They both knew what they were thinking—they had the same mind—but Three felt like it ought to be said out loud, once and for all._

" _We're staying. Keeping our existence going for as long as we can." He pulled off the dingy white and blue hat from his head and stared at it. It had a 3 scrawled above the brim in sharpie—Four's had a 4, of course._

 _Once, they'd been clones of Dipper Pines. Nothing more. Just components in a scheme to get that date with Wendy. Since then they'd seen so much of the forest—made their own discoveries, met new friends, even fought off a monster or two. They'd lived and learned totally outside the "real" Dipper. Without even realizing it, they'd become their own selves, for real._

" _Wow," he murmured. Intense stuff, discovering your own personhood._

 _Four swiped out the cipher and stood up, tossing his stick in the fire. "So I guess that means names."_

 _Three brightened. "Oh yeah! Any ideas?"_

 _Four trudged over to Three's log seat and sat down next to him with a sigh. He looked at his open hands. "I still_ feel _like I'm Dipper."_

" _I know what you mean, bro." He put his arm around the other copy. "But we aren't Dipper anymore, right? And Tyrone… kiinda taken. So." They scratched their chins and eyed each other. Both of them grinned._

" _Trace," Four said, pointing at Three._

" _Ford," Three responded, pointing at Four. They shook on it._

 _Together they threw their hats on the fire, where they kindled with a sizzle and the reek of hot toner. They watched together, till the hats burned right down to ash._

" _It's going to be hard to stay safe from the rain without hats," Ford spoke up._

" _It's the symbolism of the thing. Clean break, new life."_

" _Right, right, I'm just saying… let's invest in an umbrella next chance we get."_

" _Great idea, Ford."_

 _Ford chuckled. "Thanks, Trace."_

 _Trace grinned; it felt good to hear that name. His own name._

* * *

 **tbc...**

* * *

 **A/N:**

Hello! Welcome to... well technically it's not my _first_ Gravity Falls fic, but it's the first long one that I've posted on FFn. I wrote it earlier this year as a birthday gift for Anneriawings, who happens to like angst and have creepy, inspiring dreams. I blame her for everything. :P Figured it was about time to repost it here. The fic's complete, so it should be out with relative regularity.

In case you were curious, Ford isn't named after Stanford, it's actually a play on the number four. :)

Thanks to **Cordria** , **Phantomrose96** , and **Sophie** -who-keeps-changing-her-username-geez-child for their input and beta skillz!

-Hj


	2. Gsivv uli gsv hsld

"Have a good night's sleep?" The woman sang out as the lights flared on. This time she wore a flawlessly tailored suit, standing at the doorway with legs apart, hands on her hips. She flung out a dazzling smile. "We have _such_ a day planned for you two."

Trace stared at her, groggy and headachy. The chair had made for an uncomfortable night; every time his exposed foot touched the ground, the sole had burned from the water on the floor.

"Let us go." It came out too wobbly for a command.

"But we've only just met!" The woman had a bright red purse slung on one shoulder. She whipped it off and dropped it on the table, then pulled out the chair and settled into it, adjusting her lapels with a light flick. She crossed her legs delicately and placing her hands on her knee.

"We don't have anything to tell you." Ford shot back, voice stronger. He sounded almost cool.

"I doubt that." A male voice from outside the room - lower and darker, and familiar. Both boys jerked their heads from the woman to the man at the door. Rorsach. The one who had taken them from the forest. He walked over and unlocked the handcuffs holding them in place. "You're going to give her what she wants. Now."

Trace gritted his teeth and sat forward in his chair as he rubbed his wrists. The burn on his face from the night before still ached. "Why would we talk to _you_? You're the reason we're—"

Rorsach slapped him. The impact echoed in the enclosed space.

Trace gasped and drew back, tears welling in his eyes. He'd gotten messed up plenty, scratched and bruised from their adventures in the woods, but he'd never actually been hit before. Not by an adult. He was _twelve_.

"You're not supposed to hit kids!" Ford squeaked, echoing his thought.

Rorsach responded with a backhand across Ford's face. The impact sent him flying off the chair and crashing into the nearest wall. The boy crumpled into a heap, whimpering.

Trace's hands clenched into fists. His legs wobbled, but he took a few steps to stand in front of Ford. "Seriously? You do _not_ get to hit my brother!"

An ugly little smile twisted the man's stony face. "The way I see it, you aren't kids. You aren't even human, are you?"

Trace opened his mouth to lash back, to deny it, but nothing came out.

The agent took one long step forward, and his shadow swallowed up Trace. The harsh light behind him turned the man into a shadowy demon with a gleam of grey teeth in a chasm of a face. Trace's knees nearly gave out. He felt Ford grab his ankle.

"Rorsach." The woman spoke up, her voice commanding and sharp. The man stopped and looked her way. She tsked, shaking her head at him with her lips pursed into a pout. "They're right, you know. You shouldn't hit children."

He paused and drew back, scowling. "I thought—"

"You thought wrong. These are kids! You must use the right approach." She beamed, plucking something out of her bag. "Have some fun. Kids are all about fun, Rorsach."

Trace and Ford stared in wide-eyed disbelief as Rorsach walked over and grabbed the spray bottle. "Water?" he asked, spritzing his own hand and sniffing the liquid. That little, ugly smile came back. "Of course."

The woman smiled a bland little smile at their horrified faces. "Unless they have something new to say on the matter."

Trace licked his lips. It was just a little water. They'd carefully waterproofed their clothes. That should protect them from anything really dangerous. He glanced at his brother. Ford ran a hand under his lip, wiping away a drip of blood. Trace bent and pulled Ford to his feet, hanging on to his brother's hand a moment longer than necessary.

"No," he said, though the word seemed to fall weakly onto the concrete.

Rorsach's shadow loomed over them. They tried to stand tall, even though Rorsach was easily double their size. Trace edged subtly in front of Ford, who hadn't let go of his hand. It might be kiddie and a little embarrassing, but Ford's sweaty, tight grip made Trace a little less terrified.

The spritzer squeaked. A fine mist puffed out into the air and drifted toward them. Trace flinched back, throwing up his arm over his face. Cold moisture prickled on the back of his forearms. That wasn't… too bad—then his nerves caught up and white fire sizzled up his arms.

" _Eeagh_!" The cry yanked out of his throat. Ford flinched and grabbed his shoulder. Trace shuddered, gasped; he didn't dare to drop his arms, but he could hear Rorsach chuckle low in his throat.

The tiny squeak, squeak of the spritzer's handle came again—and again, over and over. Pain roared up and down his arms, ebbing and flowing. Ford jolted and shrieked—he must've been hit.

Trace's knees buckled and he crashed to floor. Tears blinded his eyes. He scrambled into the corner, burying his head as Ford's body jostled in beside him. Ford sobbed and choked. The agony of the water against their skin seemed to flow between them, heard the fizz of their dissolving skin close to their ears as hot pain flowed up to the back of their necks.

The spray bottle went on. Their waterproofed clothes protected their backs, but the accumulated water dripped down Trace's collar and dug biting claws into his shoulderblades. His foot and the now-soggy sock felt like it was plunged in molten lava. He squeezed his eyes shut. White spots burst in front of his eyes—it hurt, _it hurt,_ it—

"Rorschy, don't be so rough with my boys," the woman purred.

That awful squeaking stopped. Trace and Ford clung to each other, sobbing for breath. The pain subsided into a bee-sting buzz. Trace twisted around and put an arm around his brother. He stared up at Rorsach, who stood there with that stupid spray bottle, turned back to look at the lady on the other side of the room.

Trace had never hated anyone before, not really, but this guy… this guy was _actual_ evil.

Fear mingled with Trace's disbelief and outrage. Who _were_ these people? How could they _do_ this without looking even a tiny bit upset?

The woman stood up and stretched. She strolled over to them and bent her long, shapely legs to crouched in front of Trace and Ford. With one gleaming fingernail she traced the burns on Trace's arm. He flinched; his stomach churned at the soft, gelatinous feel of the exposed flesh. A little more water and his arm might fall off.

"Poor things," the woman murmured, long black lashes sweeping her cheeks as she looked down. Her voice took on a syrupy sweetness. "Couldn't you just tell us?"

Hot anger glowed in Trace's chest. It had been _her_ idea to use the thing in the first place. For some reason that thought stupidly, stubbornly gave him courage. "I'd rather jump in a lake."

"Defiant one, aren't you?" The nail tracing his burn dug deep. Trace screamed. "I don't like that."

She straightened and turned on her heel, waving a hand to Rorsach. "You can try your way, I suppose. Or alternate. Just don't get carried away. We can't get answers from puddles, now can we?" She slung the purse over her shoulder and stalked out.

* * *

" _Hey, you two." The stranger had approached them as the twins hung out at one of the many picnic spots dotted through the friendlier parts of the forest surrounding Gravity Falls. McGucket had found them a can of ScotchGuard, and they were busy waterproofing their spare clothing, spread out across two picnic tables._

" _Woah!" Trace spun around, finger still jammed on the aerosol can's button. He swiped a spray of sticky waterproofing chemicals across the stranger's face before he thought to let go. "Oh, sorry, man!" he said, dropping the can. "It was an accident."_

 _The man took off his shades, looked at the sticky lenses with distaste, and tossed them aside. They landed in the shelter's trash can._

" _That was so cool!" Ford whistled in admiration, setting down the pants he'd been flipping for a second coat. "Who are you?"_

" _I am Rorsach," the man said. A tall, strong man with a craggy face that looked as if it'd been carved from granite. He wore a dark grey suit and had the kind of posture that screamed military._

 _They didn't think to be afraid. Most people bought their story of being out-of-towners, just another couple of tourist kids spending a summer in the woods. They were only careful to stay out of sight in town and near the shack._

 _Rorsach looked from one to the other, then reached inside his suit and pulled out a badge. He handed it to Trace. "Secret agent, first class."_

" _Oh wow," Trace said, tilting it and admiring the glittering security lines. He handed it to Ford. It looked legit, all right. It had the watermark and national seal and everything. "Are you here to investigate the mysteries? Because there are plenty. In fact I've—uh, I know a guy who's been keeping notes— on everything!"_

" _Actually, I'm here for you. Both of you."_

 _Trace and Ford exchanged glances, suddenly nervous, taking a step back, away from the picnic table and toward the woods. "For us? But we're just kids."_

 _He opened his folder and showed them photos—of Dipper and Mabel. Photocopies of birth certificates. Images of Trace and Ford wandering the forest. "You are not the Pines Twins. And yet you are Dipper Pines. Both of you. This is a problem."_

" _Oh, well— I just decided to cut my hair," Ford said, pitching his voice higher and giggling. "You know, freak people out and make them think there are two of my brother. Psych!"_

 _The agent looked between the two of them and frowned. He turned the page, showing a photo of the two of them drinking ink behind the dump. "Do you also drink toxic chemicals to 'pysch people out?' Identical, inhuman duplicates wandering around… This is a concern of national security. You will have to come with me."_

" _Uh… we would, totally, but Grunkle Stan—" He wasn't buying it. They were in trouble._

 _Trace edged closer to Ford. If this guy looked away for even a second, they'd bolt. "Doesn't that violate our rights as citizens?"_

" _Rights?" Rorsach chuckled, and something dark came into his face. "The good thing about your inhumanity is that I don't have to get permission. I can just take you."_

 _They glanced at each other, then turned and ran—straight into the arms of two more suited agents. "Hey! Let us go!"_

 _No use. They were caught._

* * *

 **tbc...**

* * *

 **A/N:**

Moving right along. Thanks for your reviews, everyone!


	3. Gdl gl tvg ivzwb

_Decided to **bump the rating up to M.** Still blaming Anneriawings. -Hj_

* * *

For three days, no one came. The boys counted the hours by the ebb and flow of moisture on the walls, the rise and fall of the itching burn against their backs. They were hungry. They thought of paper-pulp marshmallows and scavenged toner. They tried to make jokes and tell stories like Mabel would. It was hard when neither could think up a punchline the other didn't already know.

Rorsach came again—they scrambled into a corner and stood back to back, fists raised in defense. The ink had helped, but those bruises and burns still stung fresh in their minds. He lifted each of them by the arms without a word and tied them with ropes to the metal bolts in the back wall. They couldn't stand—not enough slack to the ropes. They had to sit with their arms stretched over their heads. He left. The boy's hands were just going numb when _she_ came back.

She came in wearing a glittering black evening dress, with a neckline that plunged precariously almost to her navel, and a high, high slit that exposed those long shapely legs. Her stilettos, a black pair with bright red bottoms that flashed as she walked, made her taller than ever. Her hair was a confusion of golden curls caught up in a cluster at the nape of her smooth white neck.

"I thought you forgot about us," Ford spoke up, if only to cut through that silent stare.

A wineglass rested loosely in one hand, and she sipped at the ruby liquid as she gazed at Ford and Trace. "Oh, I went for an outing. Saw a show. I was hoping for a killer finale, but," she shrugged and gave a great gusty sigh, swirling the wine in her glass. Her eyes focused on the boys and she smiled, white and knifelike. "Now it's back to business."

Ford and Trace went still; this must be what rabbits felt like when a predator had its eye on them. They held their breaths and went as still as possible, through the irrational instinct that they might not be noticed.

"Care for a drink?" she offered with a sidelong glance under long black lashes.

"We're twelve," Trace said stiffly. Wine was made of alcohol, right? Like India ink. It wouldn't hurt them.

"Live a little, boys." She dipped her long fingers into the red liquid, smirking, then flicked it at Trace. "Or not."

A few droplets hit his cheek and sizzled, acid biting into his face. A cry of surprise and fear tore out of his throat, then he clamped his lips shut and glared.

"Psych! It's juice!" The woman threw back her head and laughed.

"You're out of your mind," Ford snapped. He lunged against the ropes.

"That's the idea, little man," the woman purred. She straightened her long, long legs and sauntered over toward Ford. "But how thoughtless of me, letting your brother have all the fun."

Ford shrank back.

The woman's gaze transfixed him, like a golden cobra and a cornered baby bird.

She reached out with one enameled fingertip and prodded Ford's shoulder. He yelped and overbalanced, crashing face first into the cold, damp floor, bound arms stretched painfully behind him. He moaned and rolled over, half-sitting up against the pull of the rope, legs sprawled out in front of him. A rash blossomed across one cheek.

Trace's heart dove into his toes. "Don't touch him. Hey!"

The woman ignored him. She crouched in front of Ford, balancing the wine glass in one hand, using the other to stroke his cheek. Trace saw Ford shudder and hairs stood up on his own neck.

"What do you want?" Trace shouted, trying to draw her attention.

The woman tipped her head, thinking. "Me? I'm all about the big picture." Lashes swept over those golden eyes as she looked down at Ford. She held up the wineglass, admiring how the juice caught the light. Then she tilted it right over Ford, spilling a few drops at a time.

Ford gasped and cried out. He tried to twist out of the way, but the rope was too short. The liquid slipped through a tear in his shirt and struck his stomach with a hiss. He screamed.

Trace stood as much as he could and strained at the ropes, yanking till his arms burned. "Stop it! Stop it! _Stop it!_

The juice dripped from the glass in a steady stream, drip, drip, drip, biting a hole right through Ford's stomach. Ford arched and squirmed—they'd been too hoarse for screams earlier, but this sensation dragged new octaves out of the boy's vocal chords.

"You boys are such a tiny piece of the puzzle." The woman tipped up the wineglass and sat back on her heels. Ford moaned and coughed; Trace panted for breath. She stared at them, bland and frightening. "Not a big part, not important, but until I can twist you into shape and make you fit, the picture won't be complete."

She tilted the glass again. Ford screamed, high and ragged like a wounded animal. Trace could only watch. He couldn't even cover his ears with his arms, not tied like they were. He would've screwed his eyes shut, but that only seemed to make the screaming louder.

"Lucky for you, I am patient. I'm persistent. And I _do not lose my temper_."

Her eyes flared so wide Trace felt like they would start out of her head, thin lips pulled back cruelly over those white, straight teeth in a snarl. She stood, towering, raised her black stiletto and drove the heel into the wound. A queasy blend of dissolving toner and blood splashed out and spread sizzling across the floor.

"A machine!" It ripped past Trace's lips before he'd even realized he was speaking, a half-shriek. "There—there was—it was a machine! A copy machine!"

The woman paused, glanced lazily at him, and withdrew her heel. Ford's screams subsided to a strained whimpering. They still rebounded inside Trace's skull, shrill and endless. It wasn't worth this. Nothing was worth his brother. It was just a stupid secret. She'd find out anyway. Dipper probably didn't even care. What was a copy? One splash and they were done for.

The woman sat on the table and took a long, slow, sip. "Go on."

He swallowed past the hard lump in his throat, eyes fixed on Ford. Ford's eyes were tightly shut, face creased with pain, body trembling. "The copy machine at the mystery shack. If you scan something that's alive, it'll make a living copy of it. I don't know why it does—it's—Stan had it in the back room, it made copies of us—living copies—of Dipper, I mean!"

Tears rolled down his cheeks now, and he couldn't stop them. This was his fault. _Ford._ "We're just copies! We don't have the book, or anything—we don't even have our own memories—we're copies!"

All they really had was each other. Dipper wasn't family—not Mabel or Wendy or Grunkle Stan. Just Ford and Trace. And now Ford was... he had to help him. No matter what.

A low, musical chuckle filled the room. "Xeroxing. Is that the secret?"

"Yeah." Trace licked his lips and looked her in the eye, trying to be bold and commanding. "Now you know, so—so, let us go."

The woman straightened up, a smile widening on her thin lips. "You have no idea what kind of power that is, do you, boys? We're talking about adding sentience and mobility to an inanimate object. Breaking the dimensional walls." She stood with her face in profile, linear nose and chin making a sharp angle, the light catching her eye and making it glitter. Trace had the impression of a terrifying, inhuman cyclops. "That's better than a puppet. And I want it."

Something swam up through the fog in his brain, and Trace solved it. The mystery. He gasped. "You're Bill. You're—you're Bill Cipher, aren't you?"

The woman blinked at him. Then she snickered. "Took you long enough, kid."

Trace looked around wildly. "Is this—this the dreamscape? Am I—we—dreaming right now?"

She flicked a hand dismissively. "Your world's not so hard to get to—short term— if there's a willing summoner nearby. Rorsach's in the next room, kowtowing to a flimsy little light show I left for him. He's eating up his lifespan with every minute, but the fool doesn't know. Too bad for _him_ you two turned out to be stubborn. Typical Pines family. So self-absorbed." Bill shrugged and turned her glass upside down over Ford.

Trace's heart stopped in his chest.

Juice splashed on Ford's chest, neck and arms. He gasped. His entire body went rigid. Trace _heard_ the liquid eating into his flesh, fizzing like spilled soda. His face caved in, followed by his ribs, his arms twitching themselves into a mass of bubbling, oozing toner. The reek of wet ink filled the air. An awful, gurgling moan of pain and fear fought its way through already oozing lips.

Trace couldn't tear his eyes away.

Bill turned on her elegant high heel and walked off, whistling. The door clanged shut.

"Ford?" Trace's voice jumped and shook. He collapsed to his knees, sagging to one side. It wouldn't sink in. His brother. His brother...was… "Ford? _Ford?!_ "

The puddle that was once Ford oozed and spread across the floor. It flowed into a crack and crept up to Trace's foot. He whimpered and shrank back into the cold, damp wall. A rash prickled up like fire ants across his back. Tears leaked from his eyes and dripped down his nose. The lights flickered and went out. Trace was alone.

* * *

 _tbc..._

* * *

 **A/N:**

I'm just gonna... leave this here... and run. Thanks for the reviews, guys! *flees*

(changed up the chapter titles a bit, btw)

-Hj


	4. Lmv gl tl

_Fall came early in the northwest. There was a bite in the air that almost felt like frost. As Trace sat on the bench at the bus stop, kicking his heels, he stared up at the clear blue sky. What a summer. Monsters, mysteries, mayhem. Grunkle Stan's crazy schemes got crazier and crazier as the summer tourist crowd dwindled. There was Wendy...and then there wasn't. She'd flown off to a beach somewhere for the week before school began. Trace sighed deeply; some things just weren't meant to be._

 _At least the good old Mystery Shack was the same. Soos had been installing a new window in the attic (for the seventy-first time that summer, Trace had counted). He'd saluted the twins as they drove off, nearly falling off the roof. Grunkle Stan had made his gruff goodbyes and roared off in that huge old car of his, but not before slapping a Mystery Shack bumper sticker on the bus stop sign._

" _Back!" His twin called from down the road. Trace turned and grinned as his brother ran up, puffing and blowing, two ice cream cones in his hands. "Got the actual last two cones before the guy closed up shop."_

" _Nice," Trace said, taking the offered treat. It was a little melted, and some of the chilly liquid dripped over his fingers. For some reason that made him shiver. "It's almost too cold for ice cream, huh?"_

" _Not to me." Ford dropped on the bench, pulling at the neck of his sweaty t-shirt. "Next time you get to run after the ice cream truck down a dirt road in the middle of summer."_

" _End of summer," Trace reminded him._

" _Oh yeah."_

 _They licked their cones in silence, sitting together and staring off into the woods. There were so many unsolved mysteries. So much they'd never learned about this place. It felt unfair, almost, that they were forced to part from all that now. Gravity Falls and its mysterious author had taught them more than anything they'd learned in school. Trace missed the warm, musty weight of the journal inside his vest._

" _I hope Mom and Dad let us come back next year," Ford spoke up. "I feel like…we were made for this place, you know?"_

 _Trace nodded. He stuffed the rest of the cone in his mouth and threw a sticky arm around Ford's shoulders. "There's a headline for Toby Determined: The Mystery Twins Return!"_

 _Ford laughed, elbowing Trace. "Like anyone will remember us."_

* * *

Trace lay half dreaming, lost in a deep, inky horror. The the lights came on again, stabbing at his eyes. He squeezed them shut. More tears trickled down his cheeks. The door banged open and heavy boots tromped on the cold, damp cement floor.

"Clear," a gruff female voice barked out. A crackling voice responded over a radio, something Trace couldn't maA/. Can you hear me? My god..."

More boots, but the door was blocked by the woman crouching in front of him, worry and anger pinching her face into a scowl.

"You were right," a man's voice said. "Pentagrams in the back rooms. Lots of animal guts, candles, bones. It was a cult, alright. How the hell did they get access to this place?"

"Rorsach, that's how. Bastard neglected to turn in his clearance papers when his sanity checked out."

"Woah, is that a kid?"

"Yeah." Fingers pulled back his sleeve and she hissed at the raw, seeping burns there. "Maybe a future sacrifice."

A low whistle. "That's messed up."

"You said it. We have no idea how long he's been down here. No food, no water. Damn those bastards." Her voice shook with rage. "Where's that emergency kit?"

"Right here,"

"Thanks."

Trace heard the crackle of plastic and the click of a lid being screwed off. Fear dug at his heart. His fingers twitched and tears clouded his eyes, but he was too weak to resist.

"Don't worry," the woman's gruff voice softened as she cradled the back of his head, raising the bottled to his chapped lips. "Everything will be okay."

* * *

 _end ~_

* * *

 **A/N:**

Here it is; the final chapter.

...well, almost. This was my original ending, but I ended up writing a little epilogue as a peace offering so that Anneriawings would, you know, _not_ kill me.

Thanks for the reviews, everyone! I hope you're not _too_ traumatized. *doles out tissues*

-Hj


	5. Yfg mlg zolmv

"No—stop!"

Trace's voice, but not from his lips.

The woman started, pulling back, and looked at the entrance to the room. There, panting and leaning on the doorway, blue and white hat askew, stood a skinny, brown-haired boy of about twelve.

Trace's heart did a skip-jump in his chest. Ford? No— _Dipper._

"What the— Freeze!" the man twisted around and pointed his gun at the boy in the doorway. Dipper started back, hands in the air, and both of the adults glanced from Dipper to Trace, confusion growing in their faces. Dipper didn't look at them; he looked at Trace. His eyes grew wide as saucers as he took in the burns, the bruises, the goo on the floor.

Trace tried to crane his neck, watching the action, watching Dipper. _Dipper._ He was here. Why? How? A twisted mass of emotions cut through his chest. Tears stung at his eyes—grateful, angry, frightened, painful tears. Ford's dissolving face seemed to overlay itself over Dipper. He squeezed his eyes shut. _No._

The woman set Trace back down, gently, then stood up and glared at Dipper, hands on hips. "What is going on here? How'd you get in here? Why do you two look alike?"

"I—uh, well we were searching, and I found this map and a secret tunnel, and.. uh... well—well— _how_ I got here's not the important thing, you see, that's" Trace listened to Dipper stammering—rambling. They always rambled when they got nervous. Dipper's voice cracked and he took a shaky step forward. "Oh man… Is he gonna be okay?"

The man raised the gun a higher in warning. "Answer the question, kid!"

"We're identical because he's—" a fraction of hesitation. Trace cracked an eye open and found Dipper looking at him; their eyes met. Then Dipper nodded firmly and crossed his arms. "He's my brother. We're twins."

Brothers. Not copies. Not disposable. Brothers, for real. It sounded too good to be true.

Dipper's determination faltered as he looked at the bottle full of water, hovering in the woman's hand just inches away from Trace. "And—and he's really super allergic to water so _please_ put away that water bottle!"

Trace would have laughed if he had the strength; passing off a supernatural trait as an allergy. That was almost as imaginative as Grunkle Stan's excuses when the tax guy came poking around.

The woman snorted. "Allergic to… do I look like an idiot to you?"

"It's real, I promise! It's, uh... " His brows knitted in concentration, "aquagenic—aquagenic _something_! Ah, why don't I have a phone? You could Google it!"

"Jay?"

"On it." Her companion tucked the gun into its holster and tapped away at a black data pad; it had the government logo emblazoned at the back. They must be the real deal. "Huh," he said, glancing at Dipper with new respect. "Checks out, ma'am. Aquagenic uticarial. Allergy to water. Rare but real."

The woman sucked in a quick breath between her teeth; she capped the bottle and stuffed it back in the kit.

"Damn, kid," she said, wiping her brow. "You're lucky your brother showed up. We're not equipped to handle an anaphylactic emergency out here in the middle of nowhere." She crouched again and gently touched Trace's arm. He bit back a moan. "Not that we're equipped for this. He needs to go to a hospital. Pronto."

"Oh—oh yeah, I brought somebody who can help. One sec!" Dipper leaned out the doorway and shouted down the hall. "McGuckeeet! Found him!"

A squeaky, odd, familiar voice came echoing back. "I'm a'comin, I'm a'comin, hold yeer horses!"

Old Man McGucket appeared at the doorway, puffing and blowing. He looked different from the last time Trace had seen him, big green spectacles perched on his nose and while not… _normal_ , at least a little less scruffy. The old man skittered across the room and crouched next to Trace. He plunged a hand into the satchel he carried over one shoulder and came up with a glass bottle full of black, black liquid. A hand-scrawled note labeled it as TONIC.

The woman pulled back, reaching for her weapon. "What's that? And who is…"

Dipper dashed up to stand in front of her, partially blocking her view of Trace. "Family doctor! Trust me, he's great. He's got exactly what my bro needs, right McGucket?"

"Us peer-culiar folk've got to stick together!" The old man said, winking at Trace.

He tipped the bottle up to the clone's chapped lips. Ink. Trace drank greedily, sucking in the bitter fluid like a sponge. The fiery burns faded on his arms and legs. His blood flowed stronger, and he took a real, deep breath. "Thanks," he breathed out, barely a whisper.

"I got to worryin' when you weren't a'comin' by, and saw those black cars a'skulkin' on the dump security cameras! Good thing one of you two fellers got left behind to come rescue t'other!"

Dipper started. He turned to stare at the wet, oozing patch on the cement floor, going pale. "One of… us?"

"Yeah," Trace rasped out, his voice husky, but stronger with the bite of rich black ink behind it. He wouldn't forget Ford. Dipper hadn't. And neither would he. "One of us."

* * *

 _~ end ~_

* * *

 **A/N:**

Thus ends this dark little tale. I wrote this epilogue because apparently murdering both characters of a fic is "terrible" and "too sad," which makes for a bad birthday present. At least Anneria is speaking to me again...

Thanks for your reviews, dear readers! I hope you enjoyed it. :)

-Hj


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